


The Boy They Got

by Drakey



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 20,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakey/pseuds/Drakey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who are thrice his ally, born as the sixth month wails its infant cry... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the sixth month is yet young...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boy Who Lived

The first, and the most unusual, thing that most muggles noticed about the twelfth of January, 1981 was the incredible preponderance of owl sightings. Although owls were by far easier to spot in winter, owing to the bare branches of the trees, they were generally polite enough to keep one to a tree, and out of the air in the middle of the daytime. Ornithologists still referred to January 1981 as "The Event" in England for a very long time after everyone else had done with commenting on the strange behavior of the birds and begun to speak about the royal wedding, Olivia Newton John, and just how mad it was that the United States had gone and made an actor President.

The next most unusual thing was the three-day fad of people getting very happily drunk and running about in long cloaks, shouting things about being free and not worrying anymore (which clearly they weren't, since if they were, they would have had to worry about freezing their every tender part off.)

What no one but a few families even noticed, let alone commented on, was the delivery, just after dawn, of an infant child to a door in Leeds. The man who brought the baby was enormous, big enough to hold the child in his palm, and he knocked and was received by the striking resident of Number three-hundred and six, Grange Lane. The woman, an auburn-haired beauty rumored to be from a very wealthy family, burst into tears upon seeing the child, and invited his enormous bearer inside while her seven-year-old daughter peered around the doorjamb. As owls began to flit and flutter all over the city, and drunken, cloaked revelers chanted and cheered for people no one had ever heard of, guests in odd dress spent the day going in and out of number three-hundred and six, Grange Lane.

The first, and in point of fact, the only thing that most wizarding folk noticed about the twelfth of January, 1981 was that they were, for the first time in a very long while, not entirely afraid for their lives. The word was that between one and thirty people were dead, and quite spectacularly so, and that one of them was a very important and very frightening man.

A few people noticed quite a bit more that day.

Albus Dumbledore, the holder of a great many titles and a respected figure among his peers (of which, in truth, he had very few), noticed that the muggles in front of the Tonks household were already explaining away the massive footprints in the snow as being caused either by sunlight or by salty shoes. He noticed that the steps up to number three-hundred and six were more trampled and used than any other nearby house. He noticed, in passing, that the doorknob was too warm for how cold it was outside, and also too warm for the door to open, as it did, onto the sound of tears.

"My poor sister," cried Andromeda Tonks as a handful of quiet voices comforted her. "And we'd not spoken in so long, and I'll never get the chance to tell her anything about my family..."

"Andromeda," Albus said consolingly, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder as he approached. "The time has come for you to look towards preserving what is left. We must act swiftly and carefully in the next hours." He cast a quick look around the room, and his eyes lighted on the most useful person there. "Frank, go and let Millicent know--and no one less than Millicent herself!--that the boy is alive and will be so to inherit his father's wealth and estate. Alice, contact the Daily Prophet. Let them know the truth of all this." He turned sad eyes on Andromeda and knelt in front of her.

"Andromeda," Albus said as Ted Tonks stood tall behind her, "Because your sister's sacrifice has saved him, you are his best protection. The only true threat to him can be Bellatrix, and that is a threat we will end with great alacrity. But..." he held out his wand and guided her hand to grasp the child's roaming hand, and then to clasp around the wand with him. "You must swear to protect him as your sister did."

Andromeda swallowed convulsively. "I will"

"Then speak it as a vow."

Andromeda sucked in a deep breath. "On my soul, I vow that I will shield him, as my sister did."

A quick burst of magic filled the room, so powerful that even the unattuned could feel it, and then was gone.

"We will leave a guard here for the night. But it is vitally important, Andromeda, that you defend him."

"Why," Ted asked.

Albus stood, old, tired bones creaking in protest. "Because I believe that this will one day begin again, and then we must all turn to him." He looked at the platinum blonde bundle in the weeping woman's arms.

+----+

That night, the first and most unusual thing that Minerva McGonagall noticed about Albus Dumbledore was that he wore a tired and careworn frown. He sat, as usual, in his favorite wingbacked chair in his capacious-but-cluttered office. His stocking-clad feet brushed absently across the thick carpet and his eyes roamed from bookcase to trinket to window in an absent pattern. He likely hadn't even noticed when he removed his shoes. Her presence, going over the various exuberant misbehaviors the day's news had provoked, was clearly so little consideration to him that she might as easily have been a housecat. Most would have read simple relaxation in his posture, but Minerva knew him much better than that.

"You really think it's going to start back up again?" she asked.

"I do," Albus confirmed, his eyes seeming to barely twinkle at all behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Why?"

Albus blew out a gusty breath and intoned quietly, "' _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who are thrice his ally, born as the sixth month wails its infant cry... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the sixth month is yet young..._ '"

Minerva gasped. "This was prophecy? But surely it has been fulfilled. The events are clear enough. At about five thirty--"

"The Dark Lord did not mark Draco as his equal," Albus said. "The wording implies that Voldemort would leave some sort of mark, but if it were that alone, I would say it was done. His brow was marked surely enough. More important... what power had Draco Malfoy that Lord Voldemort knows not? It was to be a power to vanquish him, not to withstand him. And certainly Voldemort intended Draco to die at his hands, but the backlash, the thing that happened to Voldemort, was at his own hands. It's all wrong."

Minerva frowned. "How do the Malfoys fit in the first place? And how did he know who to seek?"

"He hada fraction of the prophecy from Severus Snape," Albus told her calmly. "And the Malfoys? They are blood purists, his allies in ideology, open advocates for his cause, his allies in public, and Death Eaters, his allies in fact. They, the Notts, the Goyles, the LeStranges, or the Lashtrees might have been his targets, but the Malfoys had the ill fortune to have a son in the beginning of June. The Lashtrees had a daughter on the first, but... her death seemed rather unfortunate, didn't it?"

Silence, and then, Minerva let out a little gasp. "You mean they offered up their own child for him to kill?"

Albus closed his eyes. "If the Dark Lord had not pursued the deaths of both children, he might still be terrorizing us all. Instead, Draco Malfoy sleeps in his aunt's home while aurors keep watch for Bellatrix LeStrange and rumors spread that he glows like the sun when evil threatens us or shoots a pure and golden version of the killing curse from his pudgy little fingers that cannot kill an innocent. The kinder rumors, in any case."

"And the unkind ones," Minerva prompted, visibly dreading the answer.

"The unkind rumors say that the Dark Lord sought to eliminate his successor, but the boy's evil was already so great it destroyed him. If the prophecy had pointed to a child of some Order of the Phoenix member... Imagine if Frank and Alice now lay dead, or Edgar and Jennifer. Their child would be hailed as good no matter what."

The two stared down at the floor, each lost in thought for a while, until Minerva looked up. "What do we do, then?"

"What we would do for any of their children, of course," Albus answered. "We protect him, and we ensure that the Boy Who Lived will be the one to come out on top when the prophecy is fulfilled."


	2. Dora's Assertion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rather liked the character of Draco Malfoy since I noticed how versatile he is. In the original books, he's kind of a complete bastard, but... well, I've been over that in the notes on the All Apologies series, which, incidentally, is not dead, merely on hiatus.
> 
> I've seen takes on the story of the books with Harry in Slytherin, with Neville as the Boy Who Lived, with Draco in Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw, but never with Draco as the Boy Who Lived. It's not a thought that would occur to most people. The thing is, though, that Lily's act of defending her son wasn't extraordinary. It was just the circumstances that were extraordinary. I know plenty of women who would fight to their dying breath to save their children. One of my closest friends abhors violence and wouldn't hurt a fly, but would run you over with a rusty freight train to save her son.
> 
> The prophecy being different changes the entire outcome of the books. I think it's going to take it to some interesting places.

It had been seven years since the Tonks family met Rubeus Hagrid on their doorstep and received from him a very tiny, precocious child. To all outside, they were a happy family, but not all was sunshine and roses. 

Though he was only eight years old, Draco knew that his aunt favored his cousin immensely. Not that she was cruel: on the contrary, Andromeda Tonks sometimes walked the knife's edge when it came to spoiling them both. It was simply that Andromeda couldn't look at him without her eyes growing dark with some remembered sorrow. Her hugs and kisses for Nymphadora were numerous and heartfelt, but for Draco were spare and haunted. 

His uncle Ted saw it, and knew that Draco saw it, and tried to make up, and that was how they found themselves so often at the zoo, or out in the park, or riding a muggle roller coaster. It was after one of the roller coasters that Draco, tagging along behind with Dora, bent to look at a snake.

"Hey," Dora said, hurrying over to him as the little grass snake began to slither away.

"Hey," Draco called to the snake, ignoring her. It stopped and reared up to look at him.

"What d'you want, then?" the snake asked irritably. "Prob'ly 'bout to step on me, I'll warrant. Don't you go messin' about, pal! I'll bite you!"

"But you're a grass snake," Draco pointed out. "You haven't got any venom."

Dora was watching in fascination, but as the snake began to reply again, she caught and hauled on Draco's hand, dragging him away. "Come on, Draco!" she called out. "Leave that poor thing alone."

Uncle Ted looked up. "Draco, what were you doing?"

"He was chasing a snake, dad," Dora said. She leaned over. "Not a word about talking to it," she hissed. 

"Why not?" Draco asked. "I was only--"

"Not everyone can do it," Dora whispered. "I couldn't understand. It's rare to be able to talk to snakes. Really, really rare. You ought to keep it secret."

Draco frowned. "I don't understand."

"Just think how useful it would be," Dora said, grinning happily at him. She had bright blue hair today, and it made her look more impish than usual. "Someone does something you don't like? Snake in their bed. Get bored? Snake dance troupe in the backyard. There'd be a million uses for it."

+----+

"Draco," Aunt Andromeda called one evening after dinner, "could you come into the kitchen for a while?"

Draco walked into the kitchen and found his aunt and uncle sitting at the table, watching him. He took a seat with the sort of unbalanced care of someone trying to recall every recent misdeed and remember if they were punished yet or not.

"What's wrong?"

Uncle Ted smiled, a tight, nervous expression that made Draco nervous. "Nothing is wrong, Draco. Your aunt and I just wanted to talk to you. You remember that we told you about your parents? Well, there's more you need to know. Take a seat."

Draco sat, nervously, across the table from his aunt and uncle. "Are you going to tell me more about You-Know-Who?"

"No," Aunt Andromeda said. "You know that you've inherited your parents' wealth. We're paying your way until you reach the age of majority--"

"But I'll need to ration out what my parents had," Draco interrupted. "I'm only eight, Aunt Andromeda. Can't we--"

"Draco, don't interrupt," Uncle Ted scolded. He slid a surprisingly neat piece of parchment across the table to Draco. "This is a summarized list of the contracts and valuables you stand to inherit."

Draco picked up the parchment, and he spent a very long time staring at it. Goblin handwriting, spiky and cramped, described figures involving millions of galleons, contracts with large magical companies, and several art objects whose values were simply put down as "incalculable."

"Are you telling me I'm rich?" Draco said.

"We're telling you you have a lot of money," Aunt Andromeda said. "But when you turn fourteen and legally inherit all of these things, you're still going to need someone to help you manage all of this. We would like to hire a financial advisor now to get these things in order for you and help you learn how to manage money."

Draco nodded mutely.

+----+

"Do people care how much money you have at Hogwarts?" Draco asked Dora a couple of nights later.

His cousin gave him a thoughtful look and calmly announced, "Mum and Dad told you you're loaded."

Draco nodded.

"It's not about how much money you have at Hogwarts," Dora said reassuringly. Then she smiled. "It's about how much magic you know."

Draco shuddered a bit. "Can you teach me some extra magic?"

Dora chuckled. "Nope."


	3. A Matter of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get a little bit of Draco's actual childhood in here, as well as addressing a bit of worldbuilding that J.K. Rowling left bizarrely undeveloped. It's always bothered me that, as far as I can tell, Ron never met any of the other students at Hogwarts before he was at Hogwarts with them. People are basically just assumed to have arrived there with a clean slate, which makes sense for the muggleborns, since they're a random sampling from all over the U.K., and unlikely to have been neighbors, or even in the same school, but one would think that the purebloods would want their kids to interact with each other. Instead, Ron only seems to know people by their family's reputation. Draco has Crabbe and Goyle, but they're more like minions than anything else.  
> Coming to Hogwarts seems to be like starting your first day of school in a new school district, so I tried to speculate a bit about why in this chapter.

Muggleborns, who entered wizarding society relatively late, tended to question every little tradition and bit of common wisdom. Dora always complained vociferously about their complaining when she brought her friends over to the house, which Draco, of course, found amusing. 

Not that he would ever say as much to her. He just snickered about it in his room with his own friends. 

"I still don't get why you think it's weird for your little cousin to have playdates," Josephine Phinstel said, her voice coming through the wall muffled and indistinct. Beside Draco, with a cup pressed up against her ear because some tricks are just universal, Susan Bones made a face and worked her mouth in an exaggerated, pouty mockery of Josephine. Susan didn't like Josephine, who thought that Draco and anyone Draco liked were beneath her notice, fame or no fame.

Draco gestured for Susan to stop before he burst out laughing and gave the whole game away, just as, behind him, Ernie Macmillan said, in quiet-but-outraged tones "playdates?"

"It's just because mum thinks he ought to socialize more," Dora's reply filtered through the wall. Draco could picture her, sprawled out on her bed, ridiculous orange hair brushing the floor as she went from absurd position to absurd position. She did the same thing when she talked to him about life, or about her ambitions (he still thought she was mental for wanting to join the aurors), or about her utterly mad schoolteachers, or the ones she definitely had crushes on. It was just the way Dora was. She flopped, and when she felt that whatever position she had flopped to had worn out, she flopped again. Probably why she was forever knocking things over. "I never had playdates," Dora continued. "There were muggles in the neighborhood, I ran about with them, and that was it, but... well, he's Draco Malfoy. I mean, all that money, and fame--"

"So some looney's spell didn't kill him," Josephine interrupted, though Draco almost didn't hear her over Ernie's latest exclamation of disgust about being said to be on a playdate. "It's not as though he's baby Jesus."

Draco pulled his own cup away from the wall. "All right, they're just going to talk religion now Josephine's brought up that Jesus bloke."

"I don't get why she thinks it's weird, either," Susan said.

"Because your family is weird," Ernie said, setting his cup down and getting up to rifle through Draco's games shelf. "It's your muggle dad, I expect. Left all sort of ideas behind before he got hisself killed."

"Ernie!" Draco cried in irritation, but Susan was already brushing off the strange comment.

"I don't get it, though, Ernie. Why is it weird to have playdates?"

"This is not a playdate," Ernie huffed. "We're just hanging about."

Draco raised an eyebrow, or at least, he tried to. He'd read somewhere that most people couldn't do just one, and he suspected that he was one of "most people" as far as that went. "It's a playdate, Ernie. Aunt 'Dromeda wouldn't set us all up every month for five years out of nowhere just to hang out."

Ernie glared. "But playdate sounds like date," he began petulantly.

"No need to worry about that," Susan put in helpfully. "It's not like you'll ever have to worry about things like that, because you're not liable to grow up ever. I just want to know why it's weird."

"Purebloods are only ever supposed to see each other at parties when we're children," Ernie replied knowledgeably. "Especially from big important families like the Blacks and Malfoys."

"Yeah," Draco said, "Only Aunt 'Dromeda remembers my dad from Hogwarts, and she thinks that if I'm raised being told I'm famous and not having anyone my own age to talk to, I'll wind up weird and arrogant like him. Only I'm not supposed to know that, I just heard her talking to Dora about it."

"Wait," Susan said. "Why aren't you supposed to meet outside of parties?"

"Arranged marriages," Ernie said. "It's mostly the big families that do it anymore, but if little Master Goyle already knows a girl from the Greengrass family, and he's got his heart set on her since they started playing all the time when they were six, it's a problem if he's supposed to marry a girl from the Potter family. Not that the Potters do it anymore. And I think I heard Sirius Black told off the girl he was supposed to marry when she came knocking. And my family doesn't both with it either--"

"That's because it's all blood purist nonsense," Draco asserted confidently. "They arrange marriages to make sure that their children marry purebloods, but they have to be careful about to make sure they don't... y'know... marry their cousin and have babies with two heads."

Ernie sighed. "Well, yeah. I mean, it's all a matter of blood, right? It's just that it's a really old tradition. The problem is your family can't really stick to it as good because so many of them got killed." He looked from Susan to Draco and added "and your aunt just doesn't know what to do with you because you're a huge problem."

Draco waited for Ernie to put down the exploding snap cards and then he tackled him.

+----+

Three years later, they were still roughhousing, though now they did it as they headed down Diagon Alley.

Ernie's father, Geoffrey, had suggested that the Macmillans could take Draco to get his things for Hogwarts, and although Aunt Andromeda had insisted on tagging along to make sure Draco stayed out of trouble, she was up ahead talking to Geoffrey, which gave Draco plenty of time to make Ernie miserable.

Naturally, Ernie had him in a headlock as they approached Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Aunt Andromeda opened up the door, turned and exclaimed "for Merlin's sake, can you two stop behaving like animals for twelve seconds?"

Ernie guiltily let go of Draco's head and Draco straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster, then blanched a bit when he saw a boy already in the shop, being fitted for a robe. The messy-haired youth was watching their antics with evident disdain while Madam Malkin, or possibly one of her employees, bustled around him. Draco followed Goeffrey and Ernie inside, and Aunt Andromeda slipped in last.

"You two must be muggleborn," the boy said as soon as they were inside. "That's the only sort that carries on in the street like that. Well, except for the Weasley twins, but they're mental."

"Nope," Ernie said. "Pureblood. It's just we have a sense of fun. Look it up sometime, you'll learn something. Spelled f-u-n, fun. It involves not being a dour little--"

"Ernie!" Geoffrey scolded. 

"Well, he was being rude," Ernie protested.

The boy sighed. "Here for Hogwarts, are you? I'm Harry Potter. Bound for Gryffindor, obviously. Who are you two?"

One of Madam Malkin's assistants started in on a quick conference with Aunt Andromeda, and Ernie puffed up his chest importantly. "I'm Ernie Macmillan. And this," he pointed his thumb at Draco, "is Draco Malfoy."

There was a brief silence as everyone in the shop turned to look at Draco, except for the woman bustling around Harry Potter, who kept at her work as though nothing strange was happening at all. Finally, Potter let out an explosive breath. "No kidding? Really? Prove it."

Draco rolled his eyes and pushed his hair back away from his forehead to reveal the large, off-center lightning-bolt-shaped scar that Voldemort's failed killing curse had left. Potter whistled softly. 

"Told you," Ernie said, and then he said "Urk!" as one of the shop employees grabbed him and led him to a stool to be measured. Another was approaching Draco with a determined look in his eye. Draco let his hair drop and submitted to the treatment.

"So how come you two know each other?" Potter wanted to know.

"My aunt wanted to raise me different from my father so I'd turn out different," Draco told him, trying to keep his tone matter-of-fact. Potter's questions seemed imperious and loud, which Draco wasn't entirely convinced he liked all that much. "She made sure I was raised with friends I was liable to know my whole life."

"Those are called house-elves," Potter snickered.

"Hey!" Ernie shouted.

"Ernie," Geoffrey began warningly, but just then the woman working on Potter stood up straight. 

"All right, dear, you're done here." She looked out the window. "And not a moment too soon. Here comes your father." She produced a slip of parchment as the door opened up and she hurried in her squat, efficient way over toward it. A man with Potter's messy hair and hints of his skinny build was leading a small girl into the shop. He looked around, spotted Draco, quirked an odd expression across his face, and bent to a whispered conversation with the woman. Finally, he collected his son and hurried out.

There were a couple of silent minutes, and then Geoffrey chuckled. "I see James has done a fine job of raising himself in miniature."

"Really," Aunt Andromeda said. "I've met James, you know, and I wonder if that boy might be worse."

+----+

"Hm," Mister Ollivander said. The wand shop had been the last stop of the day, and Draco had found himself growing increasingly nervous while he waited through Ernie get his own wand (Cherry, eleven inches flat, dragon heartstring, very rigid). Now that Mister Ollivander had turned his sights on Draco, the nervousness had ratcheted up a few notches. Perhaps it was because of all the magical potential in the air, but wand shops tended to leave people a little off-kilter. Ernie had already excused himself to go get ice cream with his father, whence Draco and Aunt Andromeda would meet him after they were done.

"Now, this is an interesting question," Mister Ollivander muttered, looking Draco up and down. "I would say that I know the wand I'd like to see you try, but I've just sold the very thing today. What are you looking forward to the most about Hogwarts?"

"Erm, getting to make all sort of new friends, I suppose," Draco said. "What wand were you going to show me?"

Mister Ollivander shook his head as he walked to a section of wand-filled shelving no different, to Draco's eye, than any other. "It was sold to young Mister Potter. You'll have to ask him if you want to know. Try this." As he spoke, he removed a longish wand from the shelf and passed it over to Draco, who swung it hesitantly. A few boxes and loose wands tumbled to the floor, but Mister Ollivander shook his head and plucked it out of Draco's hand. He circled Draco once with an appraising look in his eyes and then smiled like a lizard. "Holly isn't the thing. Not the thing at all." He hurried down the shelves, stooped, and carefully withdrew a long box, reached in past it, and took out a slightly shorter one, which he brought to Draco.

Draco pulled the wand out of the box and breathed in sharply as a soft warmth seemed to flow up his arm. He swung the wand and blue sparks tumbled out of the end to glide in weird patterns across the floor.

"Perfect," Mister Ollivander said. "Now, that one is hawthorn wood and unicorn tail hair, ten inches. Seven galleons, of course."

Aunt Andromeda paid for the wand, and Mister Ollivander smiled at Draco. "You know, I think that suits you better than the one I might have given you to try if Mister Potter hadn't been here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the temptation to debut the new version of Harry the same way Draco was debuted in Sorcerer's Stone.
> 
> Who's to say Draco gets a different wand in this story than he does in the original? Yeah, that's going to make things a little different for him, but this story won't go the same as the original anyway.


	4. At Hogwarts

"Oh, come on, Ronniekins! It was funny!"

Ron Weasley hurried away from Fred and George before they could turn anything else into a spider. He could still hear them talking behind him on the train, but he wasn't particularly inclined to stick around and listen. He kept his head down, wiping furiously at his eyes and trying to ignore Percy's yelling behind him. At least Percy was yelling at the twins, instead of doing something particularly embarrassing to Ron. 

Ron looked left and right, searching for an empty compartment in the Hogwarts Express, trying not to wince whenever his trunk thudded into the wall. It was a used trunk, fifth-hand at least, and seemed likely to fall apart if he thought too many angry things around it. Finally, Ron spotted an empty compartment, and he ducked into it, then looked at his trunk. One of the sides was starting to come loose, and he blinked at the thing for a minute, then the door opened and a messy-haired boy walked in, frowning at it.

"Hey," the boy said. He reached for Ron's trunk and helped him lift it up to the overhead racks. "You must be the latest model of Weasley." He stuck out his hand, and Ron shook it absently. "I'm Harry Potter. Help with my trunk?"

Ron looked at Harry Potter's trunk and winced a bit. There was gold filigree. Ron felt his face heat up a bit. "How do you know I'm a Weasley?" he asked.

Harry Potter grinned, pointing. "Red hair, third-hand trunk, hand-me-down clothes, loads of freckles, not to mention that nose," he pointed to each feature with a knowing look. "Either you're a Weasley or you've done a lot of research before you started pretending to be one."

Ron stared at the floor. He was blushing fiercely, and he knew it, but he hurried to a seat and mumbled "oh. I guess that makes sense."

The compartment door slid open again and a pudgy boy poked his head in. He looked about to speak, but the toad he was holding chose that moment to let out a thin croak and struggle out of his hand, hopping twice toward the middle of the compartment. 

"Trevor!" the boy scolded, dropping to pick up the toad and glaring at it. "Er..." he handed the creature to Potter, who looked vaguely affronted by the assumption that he would willingly hold onto it. The boy didn't look at him, just dragged his own trunk in and tossed it onto the overhead rack, settling down next to Ron and taking back his toad. "Sorry. Dad got him for me, and he's awful. Keeps escaping. I wanted a rat." He looked around and flashed a smile at Ron and Harry. "I'm Neville Longbottom."

"Harry Potter," Potter said importantly. "That over there is some manner of Weasley, but he hasn't told me his name yet."

Ron took a deep breath. "I'm Ron," he said. "Ron Weasley."

"Oh." Potter looked contemplative for a few moments, and then he shrugged. "Well, nice to meet you. Hey, you know Draco Malfoy must be on this train somewhere, right?"

"No," Neville breathed. He looked up at the ceiling as though he was thinking about whether or not that was right, but then he grinned. "No, you're right, he must. I mean, if he's going to Hogwarts. Maybe they're putting him someplace special."

"They're not," Potter replied with easy confidence, flicking an all-too-casual look at the window. The train lurched and began to roll. Potter smiled. "He said he was going to Hogwarts when I talked to him. He's a bit weird, but he wouldn't have lied about that."

"You met him?" Ron gasped, looking up from the floor (the carpet needed cleaning, or possibly replacing) to stare in envious awe at Harry. He'd never met a celebrity before, or even anyone who had had a conversation with one. 

"Of course I did," Harry said. "Bloke like me's got to keep in touch, right?" He waved one hand dismissively. "Besides, I'm going to be in Gryffindor with him, might as well get to know him as soon as I can. He clearly needs it. I don't know what his aunt was teaching him, but he was acting a fool in the middle of Diagon Alley--like those twins you're unfortunately related to, Weasley--and carrying on with some boy named Ernie. I think it might have been a Macmillan, they're supposed to have an Ernie. Any case, it was scary. You can't have the Boy Who Lived hanging 'round with just anyone."

Neville muttered something and reached to catch his escaping toad again just as a knock sounded on the door. A bushy-haired girl poked her head in, opened her mouth to say something, caught sight of Harry, and said "You. Never mind, I'll go find another compartment. This one's too full of jerk." She slammed the door shut.

"What was that about?" Ron asked.

Neville chuckled. "My guess? Potter stuck his foot in his mouth."

+----+

Draco looked across the compartment he had wound up in and tried, once again, to decide if he really believed that Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle were just going into their first year. Given that they looked rather like small mountains, he had doubts, but they had said they were, largely in monosyllables. He could recall Dora talking about one of her muggleborn friends saying that there was likely something medically wrong with unnaturally large people, but Draco had to wonder if Vincent and Gregory were actually just part-giant. Not half, since half-giants at eleven years old wouldn't fit two to a side of the compartment like Vincent and Gregory were doing, but perhaps an eighth. 

He decided, on the whole, not to ask if they were half giants. As the train started moving, Gregory said "er, Draco, right?"

"Yeah," Draco said. He was a little in awe. Gregory had somehow managed to forget his name in the three minutes since he'd introduced himself.

"You're not... you know... _that_ Draco Malfoy, are you?"

"No," Draco said. "I'm the other one."

By the time the door popped open ten minutes later, Draco was beginning to seriously regret the joke, because it had begun to feel rather like stealing food from an infant. While the northern bits of London rattled by outside, a bushy haired girl stormed into the compartment, grabbed a slightly-dilapidated trunk from outside, and shoved it with a grunt into the overhead rack.

"The nerve of that boy," she growled, sitting beside Draco and glaring at Vincent and Gregory as though they had personally offended her, possibly by breathing.

"Merlin, am I glad to see you," Draco sighed. "I thought it was going to be just the three of us, and we obviously haven't got a thing to talk about. What's wrong?"

"Oh," the girl sucked in and very slowly let out a deep breath. "I'm Hermione," she said after a few moments. "And it's nothing. Just... there's this boy... and he's a... a..."

"A steamer trunk full of knob?" Draco suggested, borrowing one of Dora's more spectacular phrases.

Hermione, Gregory, and Vincent all burst out laughing, though Hermione tried to look scandalized.

Eventually, Hermione managed to wheeze out, "basically, yeah," in between laughs.

"Great," Draco said. "We can talk about how much of a knob he is for the next little bit, then move on from there. I'm Draco Malfoy."

She blinked a couple of times, peered at him, and said "huh. You are. Neat. Never met someone who's in books before."

"So what house are you bound for?" Draco asked. "These two say Slytherin, but I wouldn't be surprised if they wound up in some special house for bricks."

Hermione grinned and started singing, way off key. "They'll be in brick... house!"

Draco stared at her. "What?"

She blushed. "Sorry. It's... It's my dad's favorite song."

"Never heard it," Draco said. "Is it muggle?"

Hermione nodded, and Vincent and Crabbe eyed her with surprise. They didn't speak the rest of the way to Hogwarts, though, so Draco counted it as a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't know exactly what the twins did, just that they turned something into a spider.
> 
> The symmetry of how much of an ass Harry is really amuses me here. The train ride is probably one of the more important bits for character development in the Harry Potter series, and he's really showing his true colors in it.
> 
> I will never say what Harry did to offend Hermione. Every story needs a Noodle Incident.
> 
> Am I the only one who pictures Nymphadora Tonks as secretly really foulmouthed?


	5. A Thinking Cap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm introducing one of the changes I've made in this chapter, and I'm really looking forward to writing more of this character than Rowling did.

The journey from the Hogwarts Express had been dark, slightly chilly with the after-dark wind brushing at them over the lake, and a bit nervous. They had followed a man who turned out to be the Mister Hagrid Dora had told Draco about on a few occasions as he led them to boats to cross the lake while the lights of the castle picked out its shape on the cliffs across the water. The whole thing had, after the ordinary and slightly awkward train ride, an air of the surreal that left their arrival on the front steps of Hogwarts Castle feeling very strange. The great oaken doors swung open before Mister Hagrid could apply his massive frame to opening them, and a man with a slightly pinched face squinted from behind a pair of disreputable spectacles at the gathered first years. 

"Thank you, Mister Hagrid," he said. "I'll take them from here."

Mister Hagrid nodded smartly and hurried off. The balding man smiled amiably. "Come on in, then. I'm Professor Pettigrew. I'll be your favorite teacher here at Hogwarts." His smile turned to a grin and he gestured them in and began leading them through the grand entrance hall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but first, you'll be sorted into your houses. You'll find your closest friends in your houses here. They'll be sort of like a family to you. You'll earn points for doing well in classes and performing services for the school. You'll lose points for your house by breaking rules. Keep that in mind, children, because the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup at the end of the year, which is a fine honor and a privilege."

Professor Pettigrew opened up a door and let them into a small room off to the side. Draco could hear the voices of students in what he assumed was the Great Hall, just on the other side of a door at the far end of the room. 

"There are four houses," Professor Pettigrew continued. "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw. Each has its own merits, and each has produced a great many remarkable witches and wizards. None is inherently the best, or the worst. You will all wait here until you I return for you, at which point the Sorting will begin."

Professor Pettigrew turned and went through the small door that led into the Great Hall. The sounds of the students on the other side were briefly clearer, then dulled by the closing door, and silence once again filled the room. 

"How are they going to sort us?" a voice piped up from one corner of the room.

"My older brothers said they'll make us wrestle a troll, and if we beat it we get into Gryffindor," another voice said from not far off.

"That's ridiculous," Ernie's called out, and Draco turned back and forth to look for him. 

"My cousin said there's a hat they put on you that tells what your house will be," Draco said. Other first years turned to look at him, and there were gasps from all around. A few people backed away, and some others shuffled closer.

"Draco!" Harry Potter exclaimed. "Good to see you again!"

Draco began to reply, but just then a couple of dozen ghosts came floating through the wall just over his head, apparently arguing back and forth amongst themselves. A couple of people screamed. The ghost of a fat man in monk's clothes was speaking. "forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second chance."

"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he's not really even a ghost--I say, what are you all doing here?" A ghost in ruffs and tights had turned to look with vague suspicion at the first years. 

"New students? About to be sorted, I suppose?" the Friar said cheerily. "Hope to see you in Hufflepuff. My old house, you know."

"Oh! Well, there you lot are! Nick, stop terrifying the firsties. That's Professor McGonagall's job!" Professor Pettigrew smiled at the ghosts, shooing them through the wall and gesturing to the first years with his other hand. "Now, form a line," Professor Pettigrew said, chivvying the children into formation, and led them out into the Great Hall.

Draco had heard it described to him by Dora, but only in broad strokes. Now that he saw the reality, he gasped a little. Candles glittered from where they floated in the air overhead, and long tables held all of the students separated by house and marked by the colors of their tablecloths. The night sky loomed, as real as if it were actually there, from an enchanted ceiling that shone moonlight onto the faces of the students. Countless pairs of eyes scrutinized Draco and the other first years from their places on the benches of the tables, with golden plates and platters gleaming empty before them. 

The ghosts were scattered through the room. There was even one, a silvery shape shape among the living, at the fifth table, the one that held all of the adults, at the head of the hall. Professor Pettigrew was already far ahead of the first years, setting down a wooden stool, onto which he reverently placed a tattered old pointed hat.

There was a breathless hush, and then a rip opened in the brim of the hat, and it began to sing in a full, bright voice.

"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,  
But don't judge on what you see,  
I'll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can't see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
if you've a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You'll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folks use any means  
To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!  
And don't get in a flap!  
You're in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

Applause rang briefly through the Great Hall as the hat bowed to all four tables, and then, with no further prelude, Professor Pettigrew called out, "When I call your name, come to be sorted. Abbot, Hannah!"

A girl nearly as blonde as Draco hurried up to the stool, sat down, and Professor Pettigrew set the hat down on her head. It called out, loudly, "HUFFLEPUFF!" in fairly short order, and the Sorting was begun. Susan followed quickly, and Draco smiled as she went into Hufflepuff. Dora had always sworn that Susan was so like her that she would have to be either dropped into Hufflepuff or hurled forcibly into Slytherin.

Some of the students stayed under the hat for a good long time, but others, like Vincent Crabbe (SLYTHERIN!), were almost immediately shuffled off into their assigned house. Pretty soon, Professor Pettigrew called out "Granger, Hermione," and she went up to the stool to be sorted. Her feet kicked nervously against the crossbraces of the stool, and the hat waited a few moments before it called out "GRYFFINDOR!"

A little while later, Ernie was called up, and almost immediately upon touching his head, the hat called out "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Draco noticed that Harry Potter was cheering at each addition to Gryffindor, and he rolled his eyes, but soon, he was called up. Where there had been relative silence for all of the other names, he could hear people whispering his name as he went to take his place under the hat. it was almost a relief to have it down over his head. It was too large for him, and he couldn't see. Even his hearing was a bit muffled by it, and the hat's voice seemed to echo in his head. 

"Well, this is a surprise. The last of the Malfoys. Hmm... Not one for Slytherin, I think. What a disaster that would be! I think you already have friends in Hufflepuff, but that's hardly enough to decide me. Gryffindor is right out, too, so it's between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw."

"What do you think?" Draco asked, or tried to ask. The words, he noticed, didn't actually come out of his mouth, although the hat replied as though he had spoken them.

"Your wanting to know what my decision will be says Ravenclaw to me, but you have a great deal of loyalty and ethic, both of which point to Hufflepuff. Hmmm... You are a conundrum. So I'll leave it to you. Given your druthers--"

"Hufflepuff," Draco interrupted, and the hat echoed him at the top of its nonexistent lungs.

+----+

Harry Potter sat down at his turn, smiling and watching Neville. He'd been surprised when the other boy got into Gryffindor--though not as surprised as he had been to see Draco Malfoy plonking down at Hufflepuff of all places. Even Slytherin might have been better.At least it would have made some kind of sense, but the Hufflepuffs weren't the important people.

Uncle Pete (though Harry would have to call him "Professor Pettigrew") set the Sorting Hat down on his head, and Harry closed his eyes as the brim filled most of his vision. The hat's voice sounded in his mind.

"Well, that's a bit unfortunate," it said.

"What?" Harry asked silently.

"Oh," the hat said. "I'm about to disappoint you is all."

"What? How?" Harry objected. "I'm not a Hufflepuff, am I?"

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat cried, and Uncle Pete took it off his head and shot Harry a queer look that made him feel as though he was being scrutinized and found wanting. He could feel the color draining from his face.

"Uncle," Harry began, but Uncle Pete shook his head.

"Nothing I can do, Harry. Hat says you're Slytherin, you're in Slytherin." Uncle Pete at least looked genuinely apologetic. "It's not so bad," he went on. "There are plenty of excellent people in Slytherin, even if Uncle Sirius is going to be a right pill about this. Up you get. Over to your new table. They're the ones cheering for you. Don't disappoint them, Harry."

Harry walked numbly to his new housemates and sat down. A tall boy with shaggy brown hair clapped him on the back. "The Scion of Potter! We're sure glad to see you!" he said boisterously. "Thought you were for Gryffindor for sure. Too bad about Longbottom, though, isn't it?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he muttered. "sure."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Peter Pettigrew never had the vital information that he betrayed to Voldemort in this plot, he's thoroughly non-imprisoned. On the other hand, since Severus Snape never had a reason to betray Voldemort, I needed a new potions professor.
> 
> I almost feel bad for Harry. If I didn't know how much of a prick he's going to be here, I would feel bad for him.


	6. The Potions Professor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine my disappointment to find that there was already a canon description of the Hufflepuff common room.

The Hufflepuff common room was behind a barrel in the kitchens, at the end of a long passage. High, round windows circled the top of it, shedding little more than dim moonlight and the tantalizing promise of a sun-dappled view in the morning. A fireplace opposite the entryway was flanked at either side by big, round doors. Draco let out a contented grunt when Ernie bustled into him.

"Good job we're so close to the kitchen, isn't it?" he said.

Draco shrugged and followed the flow of students. Boys were heading right, girls left, the prefects directing with gentle words those first-years too tired or overstuffed from dinner to follow what was going on.

"Don't talk about food," Draco suggested. "I should have never had that last roll."

"Really," Ernie teased. "A roll? The great Draco Malfoy, laid low by a roll."

Draco considered giving Ernie's gut a gentle shove, since he'd not exactly seen a lot of restraint from him during the meal, but he decided that if Ernie was sick, no matter how much he deserved it, then all the other overstuffed students would probably be sick all over everywhere, too, and that would hardly be the way to start off his time in Hogwarts. He could just imagine that letter home. _Dear, Aunt Andromeda, you'll never guess what I made happen (excepting if Professor Dumbledore has already written to complain) on my first night..._

Instead of making everyone sick, Draco followed instructions and deposited himself under a patchwork quilt on a bed labelled "Malfoy" and promptly went as completely dead to the world as he could.

He didn't recall any dreams that night. As far as he was concerned, it was because he was just too tired to dream.

+----+

"There he is? Do you see him?"

"Next to the short kid with the brown hair?"

"Yeah! Just going off to talk to Granger!"

"Did you see his scar?"

"Never mind that, did you see his _hair?"_

Whispered conversation fluttered around Draco like so many butterflies for the first couple of days at Hogwarts. Adjusting was incredibly difficult. Home was distinctly magical (never mind that Uncle Ted insisted on having a television), but Hogwarts was outrageously so. There were hundreds of staircases, all of which seemed to have some trick to them, from going somewhere else depending on what day it was to being utterly impassible unless those traversing them stopped to sing a jaunty hiking tune. The teachers insisted that getting lost in the shifting corridors wasn't a valid excuse, though Draco noticed that they were mostly lenient on the first years, at least. Professor MacGonagall, whose Transfiguration class the Hufflepuffs attended first thing, was strict, and lectured them on how very dangerous her subject was. 

Professor Flitwick, a tiny little wizard whose excitability and enthusiasm were very nearly contagious, squeaked with excitement when he saw Draco in the halls, and once went up to pump his hand up and down while telling him he was looking forward to having him in Charms class. His attitude was very different from the cool smiles and winks of Professor Pettigrew, who seemed to think of himself more as a co-conspirator with the students than as a teacher.

The ghosts were mostly helpful. Sir Nicholas, who most people called Nearly-Headless Nick, would point lost students the way, and the Friar, Hufflepuff's house ghost insofar as there was such a thing, was always good for a chat, being the least deathly ghost Draco had ever met. Peeves the Poltergeist, however, was an absolute menace, screaming, playing immature pranks, and pelting students and teachers alike with everything from chalk to rubbish. 

Draco didn't like running into Professor Quirrel, who smelled strangely and spoke awkwardly, but he was the worst thing there, or nearly so. The caretaker, Argus Filch, was a beady-eyed man of about fifty. Dora had warned Draco about him, but her warnings didn't do him justice. More detentions came from Filch than from any three other adults combined. His horrid cat, Ms. Norris, seemed to always be watching for rulebreakers, and a single toe out of line, even an accidental violation in front of her, would bring Filch within moments. Draco, Ernie, and Susan managed to avoid being dragged off only narrowly twice before Wednesday. 

On Wednesday nights, the entire first year went up to the Astronomy Tower at midnight to study the stars with Professor Sinistra. Draco couldn't help laughing when he saw that Harry Potter had clearly been awakened from a deep sleep to come up to Astronomy. Potter gave him a sleepy glare, but he ignored it and conferred brightly with Hermione over whether the bright reddish star they were looking at was Algol or Betelguese.

On Thursday morning, the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had double potions with Professor Pettigrew, and Draco filed in with Susan and Ernie, sitting down and looking around curiously. There were slimy things in jars on shelves behind Professor Pettigrew's desk, along with a couple of jars of shimmery liquid and what Draco thought might be a bottle of wine, along with a very obvious row of butterbeer bottles.

The Potions Professor emerged into the room in stained robes, smiling brightly at the students. "I see we've all sorted ourselves out, then. Shall we begin with roll call?" He began listing off names, and when he got to Draco, he paused. "Hm. Our new celebrity. Draco Malfoy. Tell me, what was the first potion ever brewed?"

"Er," Draco said, feeling quite off balance.

"Excellent," Professor Pettigrew said. "Quick response time, and the height of wit." He moved on, and when he was done taking roll, he leaned back against his desk. "I don't expect most of you to really appreciate this class." He quirked a small smile. "Potionmaking is a very subtle art, which most lack the patience for. Those wishing to become healers, aurors, and the like, careers that serve, will need to have at least a passing familiarity with the subject, but I do demand excellence from my students. If you unlock the secrets of potions, you can whip up a batch of longevity, mix up luck, or even brew away shyness." He leaned forwards, clapping his hands. "but today, we'll just be working on discipline. Cauldrons out, everyone! We're making tea!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Professor Pettigrew always takes advantage of the brand-new, clean cauldrons to make tea. He figures the students should learn technique and patience before he hands them anything really magical.


	7. The Key to Vault One Thousand and Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Which Draco receives a missive, a key, and a headache.

The morning after the first Potions lesson, while the Hufflepuff first years were talking about their upcoming first lesson with Professor Sprout (who apparently was responsible for filling the common room with potted plants, much to the dismay of Justin Finch-Fletchley and his surprising Blubberwort allergy), a strange owl landed in front of Draco. Its plumage was remarkable, as was its evil-looking glare and obvious attitude of general disdain for things which were not it. Its eyes even glinted red when it angled its head right, which it seemed to like doing.

"Merlin," Ernie mumbled. "That is one foul-looking bird."

"Didn't know you were pen-pals with Grindelwald, Malfoy," Zacharias Smith said around a mouthful of food. 

"Dunno whose it is," Draco muttered. He took the letter it was holding out to him, looking around. Up at the staff table, a couple of the teachers were peering down curiously at him. The unusual bird had been easy to pick out of those winging down to the students for the usual morning mail call. Professor Quirrel was asking Professor Kettleburn something while they both watched the owl, and Professor Pettigrew was peering curiously at it with his eyes narrowed, which made his already-pinched face look positively ratlike. Even Dumbledore seemed interested, looking straight through Professor Binns to get a peek.

The envelope had a surprising amount of heft to it, as though it contained multiple sheets of parchment, and something rattled around inside that Draco couldn't quite figure out. It was small, and clearly tucked inside of the missive itself. He scanned across the staff table once more, and then let out a gasp. Most of the teachers had turned back to what they were doing, but as his eyes skipped across Professor Pettigrew, a pain flared up in his scar. He turned his head like a shot back to the table in front of him.

"All right, Draco?" Hannah asked from a couple of seats down.

"Yeah," Draco mumbled. "Just... my head hurt for a second."

Ernie and Susan both stared at him, but Draco ignored them and popped open the envelope instead. The letter inside was three sheets of fine vellum, old but clearly very good, so heavily creased that it was beginning to fall apart at the folds. A single key, ornate and very old-looking, clattered out of the envelope. Draco picked up the key and held it up for closer inspection. The logo of Gringott's was inscribed on it, marking it clearly as a vault key. On the reverse side was carved the number one thousand and three, at which Draco attempted to raise an eyebrow (years of practice hadn't enabled him to do it, but had ingrained the habit of trying, resulting in his looking very strange when intrigued). He knew of four vaults he had inherited from his family, though he had been advised not to visit them until he officially inherited ownership rather than just "usage" of their contents. Even the most expensive, highest-security vault he had was only in the high nine hundreds. A vault past one thousand was typically reserved for things so expensive or in need of guarding that they had to be guarded by dragons. Things like entire shrunken mansions or state secrets or artifacts from the founders of Hogwarts. Generally, only insane families with an unreasonable devotion to the idea of their own importance had vaults past one thousand.

Draco set the key down. Someone reached for it, and he smacked their hand with a closed fist. As the offending party yelped and muttered mutinous things, Draco started reading his letter. There were actually three of them. He checked the signatures at the bottom, and found his father's name, his mother's name, and a third, strange name that he didn't know, but which was clearly a psuedonym anyway. He read the letter from his father first.

**My Beloved Son,**

**Your mother and I have chosen to flee from Our Lord rather than to give you to him. Though this may end in our deaths, we believe that it is the correct decision.**

**The Dark Lord gave us hope that he would create a world in which we, the Pure Blooded and the Right, could have our rightful place in society. Though this must, perforce, be achieved through war and violence, we did not--could not, as Purebloods and honest people--object. It was only our duty make such war as had to be made.**

**Many parts of that war were distasteful, and I hope that the time will come when I take back this letter from its keeper, destroy it, and explain to you why it was our duty as Purebloods to do them. But I realize that I may not get this chance.**

**I have killed in defense of the Purity of Wizarding Blood, and not always with honor on the field of a duel. There have been poisonings, and assassinations, the Imperius Curse has been used, by me and by my comrades, and there have been monsters and werewolves unleashed on our enemies. I have been asked, and have unflinchingly proceeded to torture people, because our Noble People are in danger. **

**This, Draco, you must understand. Though what you have heard of my actions thus far may seem barbaric, and far from fitting for the scion of a Noble and Moste Ancient House, in times of danger these are the things that must be done. For years, there has been increasing and dangerous provision given to those who marry out of Pureblood lines. Mudbloods, Half-bloods, and the like have been treated as equal by our Ministry, but our Ministry forgets that magic is in the Blood and passes down through families. As we dilute the gift we have been given, magic is slowly being lost to the Wizarding World as a whole. More and more families fall by the wayside and risk destruction, and our children are taught that it will do no harm to thin their Blood with the water that runs through muggle veins. Our Ministry invites disaster.**

**Many of us had seen this, and there were efforts and movement to control the slide into oblivion, but the Ministry had ignored us. Finally, a voice emerged.**

**Most of us realized that the Dark Lord was dangerous from the beginning. He was perhaps a little too steeped in the Dark Arts, into which nearly any sensible wizard or witch will dip a toe, but not fully immerse themselves. But more importantly he was ruthless. He was dangerous. He was powerful. and he had a plan.**

**We did not jump at the first man who approached us with a plan. The Dark Lord's plan was wise. He aimed to gather us together, recruiting at first only from Slytherin House, where Purity of Blood could be more assured, where we knew each other already. He would chip away the foundation of the Ministry, take over, and build a new, Pure Blooded empire. There, his goals began to grow more lofty. He sought immortality for all of us, and claimed to have taken many steps along that path himself. What his plans were on the matter, I do not know, though it might be wise to someday ask after Nicholas Flamel, who is actually immortal, and discover if the Dark Lord ever approached him.**

**An immortal empire, run with attention given to the fate of our magic? I could hardly let the opportunity to, quite literally, save the Wizarding World go by. And so I followed him, and your mother did as well.**

**But he has done something to prove his madness runs too deep to trust. He wished to preserve the Pure Blood of Wizardkind, or claimed he did, but he has demanded you and the child of the Lashtrees be given over to him to be killed. When he had killed the Lashtrees' son, I am told he sterilized them both so that they might never produce another child. Perhaps he fears for his own safety, but even then it will not do. He meant to erase two Noble Lines from the world.**

**And he meant to erase my only son. He meant to erase the precious life I write this very letter to. You.**

**This thing, I could not allow. And so I have taken you, and your mother, and we have fled, but I fear it will not be long before we are found. I dare not go to the Order of the Phoenix, for they hate me. I write this, my son, in darkness and fear, in a hovel in Scotland, to save your life.**

**If ever you read it, I am truly sorry.**

**Your father  
Lucius Imberus Malfoy**

As he got to the bottom of the letter, the first of its folds finally gave way and the top few inches fluttered to the table. Draco set down his father's letter and scooped up his mother's. It was shorter than his father's and tear stained in a few places. 

**My Dear Draco,**

**I truly hope that our friend never delivers this letter, that against all odds you have your parents to rely on. I suspect that if you do, we will be in prison, though I think our preserving you might keep us from the horrors of Azkaban, at least.**

**But, my dear baby boy, I doubt that will come to pass. We have angered Lord Voldemort, and he is too powerful to stop, too canny to evade. So I write this in the certainty that I will die. But I will die protecting you. That is all I have left to do, to protect you, and hope that I may somehow save you. I wish to raise you myself, but I can only give you this advice. I know you are about to go into Hogwarts: that is when**

And here a name was scratched out, so thoroughly obliterated that there was certainly no hope of restoring it. Draco frowned. The writing continued on after the blur.

**will deliver this letter to you in secret. It should be easy enough: many of Lord Voldemort's allies are powerful because they are secret.**

**This is the first lesson I impart. Present a face to your enemies as congenial as the one you show your allies. When all are impressed by you, none will expect you to act against them, and few will act against you. If you must present a less-than-friendly face, be ruthless. Even in Hogwarts, this will be important, especially within Slytherin house.**

**Do well in your studies, and neglect no subject. Take Muggle Studies. It will prepare you to exploit the weaknesses of muggles when you must. Choose against Care of Magical Creatures. Few careers require it, and you are likely to be hurt.**

**Make friends in your house, but avoid the Gryffindors. Remember that they are impulsive, and will hate you initially for being a Malfoy and in Slytherin. If you can, choose a few important Gryffindors, just one or two, and befriend them. Shower them with gifts. If your enemies envy your friends, they will try to become your friends themselves. Don't let them, but make them believe they have a chance.**

**Choose one or two friends no one would expect. The Crabbe and Goyle families are useful for this, because they are useless nearly everywhere else in life.**

**Make no apologies. You are a Black, as well as a Malfoy.**

**I have included a drawing of the places throughout Hogwarts that are best for studying, hiding, relaxing, and even trysting in your later years. Refer to it when you have need.**

**When those later years come, I do not care if you choose a girl or a boy to pursue, but do us proud with your choice. A Pureblood, though they can be from any house. Make sure that you do not embarrass yourself when you look for love. A Black and a Malfoy is pursued or offers their companionship as a gift. You mustn't be seen to chase the object of your affections without shame, or to throw yourself at their feet, and though you may enjoy your time together with them, do not behave without dignity.**

**Whoever you marry, marry them for love. In your school years, you may indulge your baser impulses, and enjoy trysting for simple physical attraction, or for petty reasons, even for revenge and spite, but do not build your life on something so small. I love your father. Love who you marry as well.**

**Join clubs, but no more than two. You must have free time, and time to appear idle.**

**Join the quidditch team if you can.**

**Learn to cook.**

Here, the page became so splattered with tears that it was unreadable, and a short ways down the page, it resumed again. Draco's own eyes were prickling, in spite of his best efforts. He could feel Susan's hand on his shoulder.

**Remember that I love you, and though your father's letter may not say as much, he loves you very deeply as well. We do this for you.**

**Your loving mother  
Narcissa Vaniloqua Malfoy**

Her signature was shaky and blotted with tears. Draco flipped the vellum and saw the maps she had promised, rough sketches of Hogwarts with various labels pointing out good places. He picked up the last letter. The handwriting was precise and measured, too even to be anything but magically produced.

**Draco,**

**Your parents expected me to deliver this to you before you entered Hogwarts, but thanks to various circumstances, I couldn't make good on my promise. I was supposed to deliver this in person, but I cannot do that. I will protect you as they hoped, but only from the shadows.**

**I've erased my name from where your mother wrote it in her letter to you. I'm sorry, but I had to.**

**Your father, when he gave me the letter, also gave me the key to a secret vault at Gringott's. I have never touched it, but I suspect that it is both the most valuable things you possess and the most incriminating. Be careful when you enter it: it may contain Dark objects as well as things of great sentimental value.**

**\--Saxum**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucius Malfoy has no canonical middle name, so I've assigned him one independent of the fandom, which seems to either skirt the issue or use Abraxas (not that I did much checking). His middle name is Imberus. Scholars of Latin will find that this means his middle name is a bastardization of the latin for Douche (scholars here being defined as "people who have google").
> 
> That's right, he's Lucius Bastardized Douche Malfoy.
> 
> Narcissa's letter was difficult to write, but the hardest bit of writing I did here was undoubtedly the few paragraphs from the mysterious Saxum. There was a lot he wanted to say that would have come across as threatening, and I had to do a shit-ton of rewriting.
> 
> Anyways, questions, comments, and small-fluffy dogs are welcome!


	8. Snitches and Sons of Snitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potter spends a little more time being an absolute bag of flaming dog shit in this chapter. 
> 
> You may notice a pattern emerging.

"I understand that you wanted to speak to me?"

Professor Dumbledore was tall, and wizened, and just a little imposing. He twinkled over his half-moon glasses at Draco, smiling in what he probably believed was a reassuring way, but there was an obvious strain underneath his beam. Professor Sprout nudged Draco encouragingly, and Draco handed over the letters he had received that morning. Professor Dumbledore read through them, casually repairing any damage as he went on. He frowned and aimed his wand at the spot in Narcissa's letter where the name was scratched out, but eventually, he blew out a gusty sigh, moving on with visible disappointment. He set each letter aside as he finished them, then peered at Draco. 

"You wish to see the contents of vault one thousand and three." When Draco nodded, Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "Even a Death Eater insists that it may be dangerous for you to enter that vault. I can hardly allow--"

"You don't control that, Professor," Draco corrected him. "I'm the sole member of House Malfoy. Anything I do is an affair of a Noble and Moste Ancient House. Someone should escort me, because I'm not completely mental, but I still have to see what's in there. When's the next weekend I can go?"

"Draco, you've shown very little curiosity about your vaults before now," Dumbledore began.

Draco cut him off. "None of my others vaults have been a mystery. I know what's in them already. I need to take stock, and if there's anything dangerous or illegal, I need to turn it over to the Ministry. I won't allow inspectors to root through my vault, even if the Goblins would. That means I have to go to it."

Professor Dumbledore leaned back. His chair, a soft-looking arrangement at odds with the strange and mysterious surroundings of his office, creaked a little as he settled into it. There were dozens of strange silvery instruments arranged on little tables throughout the office, making odd little noises. The Headmaster's phoenix, Fawkes, was perched atop a bookshelf, preening his smoldering red tail feathers. The imperfect silence continued for a few moments while Dumbledore made it obvious he was searching for a way out of the spot Draco had just put him in. At last, the old man shrugged. "The first weekend in October will do nicely. It is impolitic to tie the hands of your superiors like that."

"I don't want to do it regularly," Draco muttered.

+----+

"Go on, Potter! Show us what you've got!"

The jeers of the Gryffindors were already beginning to give Draco a headache, and the first flying lesson hadn't even started yet. Harry Potter was glaring across the lawn by the Forbidden Forest as all the first years lined up. Ron Weasley was just cupping his hands to project another shout at Potter when Madam Hooch showed up and fixed him with a firm glare that silenced even the thick-skulled boy. 

"No one will be showing anyone what they've got during this lesson," the elderly flying instructor huffed. "I know that some of you will have been taught at home how to fly, but you will almost all have been taught wrong, by older siblings who ought to know better. In potions class, you mix things that may explode, in transfigurations you run the risk of turning your arms into matchsticks, but here you are going to be--" she pointed to emphasize her next words-- "three hundred feet above the ground, clinging for dear life to a stick with more sticks at the back end of it. The only reason you will show anyone 'what you've got' is if 'what you've got' happens to be perfect technique for safe and practical flying!"

"But my dad taught me, and he's a professional seeker!" Potter cried.

"Yeah!" Weasley shouted. "He plays for the Tutshill Slightly Nasty Weather!"

Potter started across the grass, but Madam Hooch's wand came out and the Slytherin stopped short. "Er," he mumbled.

"Don't think that I won't hex you, Mister Potter. I remember your father. He was a fine enough seeker, but that's probably because he had all the brains of a snitch. If you want to emulate one of his bunch, take after Remus Lupin, or at least Professor Pettigrew. Now listen to your teacher, get back to your broom, and do exactly--and I mean exactly!--as I say."

Potter slunk back to his broom, muttering rebelliously. Madam Hooch gave instructions while everyone else smirked at Potter, and then everyone was calling out "Up!" at the top of their lungs, trying to get their brooms to jump into their hands. Potter, obnoxiously, managed it right off, but Draco wasn't far behind, and within a couple of minutes, everyone had managed the trick.

"Now," Madam Hooch said. "You will all mount your brooms, kick off gently from the ground, rise up three to four feet, and come back down. Everyone ready?" She looked around, smirked, and said "Now."

Draco did as she said. He'd been given the occasional brief lesson, but Dora was hopeless on a broom, and he'd never gone much further than theory. So far, though, everything seemed as easy as he could've wished. He glared at Potter across the field, who was rolling his eyes at the simplicity of the exercise, and then there was a little cry and Seamus Finnigan was dropping like a rock from ten feet up as his broom rose into the air without him. He landed with a hard thud and a cracking sound, and Draco winced. Seamus sat up, cradling his arm, and Madam Hooch hurried forward, swept him up, and glared back at the class. "I'll be taking Mister Finnigan to the infirmary. You're all to stay firmly on the ground. If I catch any of you on your brooms, you'll be expelled faster than you can say 'quidditch!'"

There were a few uncomfortable moments as she left with the injured boy. Draco watched the spot where he had fallen. Something moved on the ground, and he started over to the spot.

"What are you doing?" Susan hissed. 

"Finnigan dropped something," Draco replied, and he bent down to scoop it up, but just then, another hand came and grabbed the sheet of parchment. Draco caught a glimpse of writing across the page, but nothing else before he looked up and his eyes met Harry Potter's. 

Potter smirked. "I'll take this."

"Why?"

Potter's smirk turned a little brighter. "If I help him out, Seamus will have to be my friend."

"That's not how friends work," Draco said. He was about to make some other salient point, but a peal of laughter cut him off.

"Did you find Finnigan's letters to his girlfriend?"

Draco leaned over to see Theodore Nott grinning. He started to reply, but Potter was already shouting back to his fellow Slytherin, "I think it's to his mom!"

"Like I said," Nott guffawed.

Potter was momentarily surprised, but the sketchy emotion had barely crossed his features before he replaced it with a smile, and, joking with Nott, he hurried back to the Slytherins.

Draco began to question whether or not Seamus would be getting his letter back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this story, there was nothing wrong with Neville in the first flying lesson: it was the broom. I actually tend to go with that anyway. Neville's broom acted up a bit, and he didn't know what to do, so he panicked. This time, though, it happened to Seamus.
> 
> I've never really liked Neville's status in the early books as the universe's whipping boy. Maybe because as a child I had Neville's skill, Hermione's aspirations, and Ron's temper. I can see too much of myself in Neville to be comfortable with watching him fail over and over like that.
> 
> I spent far longer than I should have debating whether to echo the remembrall scene. I still haven't decided exactly how to handle Chamber of Secrets.


	9. The Midnight Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These events are fairly necessary to the story. The reuse of the midnight duel feels a bit hackneyed, so I'm changing it as much as I can.

Draco blew out a little sigh, yelling "stop" at the end of it. Potter turned, staring at him with surprise. "You're bringing that letter back to laugh at it with the rest of the Slytherins," Draco accused. 

Potter stared at him, obviously trying to decide what he would do. Finally, his decision apparently made, he arranged his face into a sneer. "If Finnigan's dumb enough to keep his letters to Mummy tucked in his pocket, he ought to get laughed at." Potter cast a demanding look at Neville Longbottom. "I bet you agree with me, Neville."

Neville blanched a bit and looked around as though wondering who Potter was talking to. "Uh," he said uncertainly. "I don't really know--"

"What do you mean you don't know?" Potter cried in tones of outrage. "What, are you dumb?"

Ron started forward and went to snatch the letter from Potter. Potter held it up over his head, but since Weasley was taller, he quickly jerked it back down again, hiding it behind his back. Weasley lunged for it, and they began to work 'round and 'round each other, Potter evading Weasley and Weasley growing more and more obviously frustrated, until Draco pulled his wand out, aimed carefully, and muttered "expelliarmus."

A thready flash of reddish light flickered between Draco's wand and Potter's hand, and the letter floated gently to Draco. He picked it out of the air, reminding himself to thank Dora for teaching him the disarming jinx and the various ways it could be horribly misused. Potter turned and glared at him. Draco pocketed the parchment as Potter crossed the distance to him. "What do you think you're doing?" Potter growled. 

"I think I'll deliver Seamus' letter myself," Draco explained. "I won't read it, or let anyone else read it."

Ron snorted with amusement behind Potter, and Potter raised up his wand, then slowly lowered it. "You and me, tonight," he hissed. "Midnight, on the quidditch pitch. Let's see if you can manage that again when you're facing your opponent. Or are you afraid to get in a real fight?"

Draco smirked at him. "Fine. Have fun getting beaten at your own game."

+----+

Seamus looked a bit wrapped up in his misery. Ron and Neville were sitting by his bedside, talking to him when Draco made his way into the infirmary after dinner. A smoking spoon sat on Madam Pomfrey's desk, and Seamus's irregular cringing told the tale of what had happened to him pretty eloquently. "What did you break?" Draco asked.

Ron looked up, blinking in surprise. "You brought it." 

"Well, yeah, I'm not Potter," Draco said, pulling out Seamus' letter. "Which means I'm not about to act the tool just to get the Slytherins to like me." He handed the letter over. "Did you think I would?"

"Well, you're a Malfoy," Ron muttered. "I mean... I sort of thought..."

Neville looked down at the ground, blushing. "Ron," he whispered.

"Why would I do that just because I'm a Malfoy?"

"My dad says that... I mean, there's this..."

"His family's got a blood feud with yours," Neville explained. "Ron's not that bright, so he thinks you'll always be horrible to him."

Ron spluttered for a moment, and Draco sat down. "Is that an official blood feud? Like, did one of the Malfoys legally declare feud?"

"Erm... I think so," Ron said.

"Well, I'll see what I can do about reversing it."

"That would cost you money," Ron said. "You'd have to pay my family to forgive yours for declaring the feud. I mean, if it's a legal feud instead of just a personal one. Er... my brother Charlie was complaining about it because there was a girl he really liked, but a Weasley had declared a feud with her family a couple hundred years ago, and he couldn't ask her to marry him because the feud got in the way, and there's not enough in the Weasley vaults to pay it off."

"That's stupid," Draco grumbled mutinously. "I'll do what I have to. I mean, I can afford it, but this must cause all sorts of problems. Maybe when I take up the Lordship, I can try to do something about it."

+----+

Harry Potter paced back and forth in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room. He had meant to just tell Uncle Pete or Uncle Connor, both of whom liked him, that Draco Malfoy was out on the quidditch pitch looking to have a duel. Between Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott pressuring him to go teach the Hufflepuff what happened to people who messed with Slytherin, that wasn't really an option anymore. The girls all thought it was utterly barbaric (except Pansy, of whom Harry was honestly a little afraid) and were glaring at him, but Harry still had a way to impress even the girls. He had arranged his clothes beforehand, and he took one more deep breath before reaching under his robes to flick up the hood of his father's invisibility cloak. As he covered his head, he doffed his school robes, flinging them off to the side. He reached out to open the door. "I'll be back when Malfoy's learned a thing or two," Harry intoned darkly, knowing that his voice was coming from an apparently empty patch of air. There were a couple of impressed noises, cut off by the closing door behind him.

He made his slow way through the halls of Hogwarts, watching for teachers at every turn. Anyone who caught him would have to punish him, however much they liked him. Once, he passed Filch's cat, but he even resisted the temptation to give her a kick. His dad would kill him if the invisibility cloak got confiscated. Her lanternlike eyes followed him as he passed, but Harry knew she couldn't actually see him. Cats were just creepy like that.

He slipped out the front door, pulling his wand, and grinned when he saw Malfoy waiting in the middle of the field. 

"Why are you waiting here, you idiot?" Harry asked, drawing up close behind the Boy Who Lived.

Malfoy jumped, spinning, and looked around wildly, but obviously couldn't see anything.

"Come on," Harry said, pushing one hand out of his sleeve to point at the stands. "In there. They can't see us inside of there."

Malfoy walked uncertainly over to the stands, and Harry snickered. He raised up his wand, but shook his head. He was going to do this properly.

Once they were both hidden from the school, Harry took off the invisibility cloak, grinned at Malfoy, and raised his wand. "Bow," he said. 

Malfoy bowed. As soon as he straightened up, Harry snapped "Petrificus totalus!"

Malfoy stiffened and fell over backwards, a look of shock on his face. Harry grabbed his cloak from where he had set it down and retreated back to the castle.

+----+

Draco somehow managed to sleep while he was stuck. He woke up to Professor Pettigrew looking incredibly cross. "Have you been dueling, young man?" the Potions professor asked as Draco's limbs all loosened up.

Draco blushed. "I couldn't just run away," he began.

"You could tell someone what happened, and you should have," Professor Pettigrew said. "Who--"

"Potter," Draco snapped.

Professor Pettigrew slowly turned magenta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Uncle Connor" is Professor Connor Saunders, the Ancient Runes Teacher. He'll show up more later, but the only thing you really need to know is that he's head of Slytherin House in the absence of Snape.
> 
> Potter did something awesome there, and I kinda hate him for it.
> 
> This is going to end... really badly.


	10. The Seeker and the Potionmaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James really does have a blind spot as far as Harry goes. It's a little sad.

An hour after he was retrieved from the stands, Draco was still recovering, drinking down warm tea after the cold of the night. Professor Pettigrew and Madam Pomfrey alike seemed to think that he was hypo-something, and they had set him in Professor Sprout's office. His head of house was scowling at the wall while Professor Pettigrew paced back and forth and Professor Saunders watched him pace with all the focus of an eagle. 

"Peter," Professor Saunders muttered sometime during Draco's second cup of tea, "you're doing it again."

Professor Pettigrew halted in mid-stride and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. 

"And now you're telling yourself it isn't my fault," Professor Saunders said, "Which is at least partially true, but that doesn't mean I couldn't have prevented it." Professor Pettigrew huffed angrily, and Saunders went on, "and it's no use blaming James--"

Professor Pettigrew got a dangerous look on his face and turned towards the head of Slytherin, only to be prevented from blowing his top by the door opening on a visibly irate Lily Potter, dragging her son by the ear and trailing her downcast husband behind her. She propelled Harry into the room and glared at him. He sat sullenly a good way off from Draco. 

Pettigrew stared at James Potter, then glanced at Professor Saunders. Saunders shrugged, as if to say "if you must," and Professor Pettigrew slowly went from his normal pale color through the magenta he had achieved when Draco told him what had happened to an ugly purple.

"WHAT IN THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING GIVING AN INVISIBILITY CLOAK TO AN ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD BOY!?" he screamed, and everyone in the room flinched. "THAT WASN'T A SUITABLE THING FOR FOUR FIFTEEN-YEAR-OLDS TO USE, AND ONE OF US WAS REMUS BLOODY LUPIN! HAVE YOU COMPLETELY TAKEN LEAVE OF YOUR SENSES, OR WERE YOU JUST CONCUSSED FROM A BLUDGER THE DAY YOU SENT THIS LITTLE HELLION TO US ARMED WITH BABY'S FIRST SPY KIT? HAVE YOU THE SLIGHTEST CONCEPT OF WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO DRACO?"

Professor Saunders grabbed Pettigrew's hand, and Professor Pettigrew took a deep breath and slowly faded from purple to merely dark red. Professor Saunders took over. "James, you've done some very irresponsible things in the past, but this is really beyond the pale. I've already taken the cloak from the dormitory, and I'm half-tempted to give it to Remus. If it wasn't a family heirloom, I'd destroy it. As it is, I'm giving it to you, but if I catch Harry with it again, then I'll thank you for your donation to Hogwarts."

James turned his own shade of red, and Draco reflected that the adults were showing him all sorts of new colors today. "Connor," he began, but his wife cut him off.

"James, take the cloak," she growled. "Sit down. Harry, do you know what could have happened to Draco?"

Harry mumbled indistinctly and Draco glared at him. 

"He could have died, Harry," she scolded. "It's lucky you did this to him in summer, because a winter night frozen out under the Quidditch stands would have killed him. Do you understand that, Harry?"

"Yes'm," Harry mumbled.

"I don't think you quite get that, Harry," Lily Potter said. "You would have done what Voldemort failed to do and killed Draco Malfoy just by being a little prick."

Harry blanched a bit, and Lily grabbed the invisibility cloak in question--Draco could only assume it was the one Harry had used to get to him--and shoved it roughly into her husband's hands. 

"I'll chalk it up to you not knowing this time, but don't think for an instant that you get away without a punishment. I don't know what we're going to do, young man, but your teachers are going to punish you as much as they possibly can."

"We absolutely are," Professor Saunders said. "You'll be in detention for... I don't know, but it starts tonight. My office."

"And as for you," Professor Sprout said, turning to Draco. "You should never have been out there in the first place. I won't punish you, but if you pull anything like this again..."

"Yes, Professor," Draco said. 

James Potter spoke up. "Mister Malfoy, for what it's worth, I'm terribly sorry about my son's behavior. Harry, what were you thinking?"

"He humiliated me," Harry said irritably. "I wanted to get him back."

"He stole Finnigan's letter home," Draco complained. "I got it back, and Potter decided he just couldn't let that stand." He rolled his eyes. "He challenged me to a duel and then he froze me there and left me."

"You _stole someone's letter home?"_ James said in shocked tones.

Harry seemed to shrink into himself and spoke quietly to his father for a few moments, but eventually he was sent out with Professor Saunders.

"James," Professor Pettigrew said, "Maybe now you'll believe that boy is a problem. He's been arrogant and unpleasant to all the other students, and he's asked me no less than five times to get him put into Gryffindor because he says he 'belongs' there. Your daughter will be here next year. Do you really want her to be looking up to that reckless example?"

Draco sneezed, and Professor Sprout aimed a warming charm at him. "I'd say Mister Potter's behavior was a bit more than just reckless," Sprout objected. "Not that you behaved wisely, Draco. I should stress that you have acted very foolishly indeed. Dueling should never be a solution for any conflict between classmates. I'm sure it makes you feel very grown up to solve your problems in the most barbaric way available to you, but we are to talk out our problems. If anyone tells you that they intend to duel you, you tell them no, or you go to a teacher. Preferably both."

+----+

By the time Draco was let out of Professor Sprout's office, classes were mostly over. The whole school knew what had happened, of course, and Potter was getting no end of grief over it. There were plenty of angry cries following him around, and very little in the way of happy looks. Draco tried not to be smug about it, but the fact was that he could only respond stoically to so much sympathy and being told he was brave. Ron Weasley seemed to think he was some kind of hero for standing up bravely in a fight even though he was "just a Hufflepuff," and Draco was half-convinced that Hermione Granger was ready to propose marriage just because he had gotten Harry Potter into trouble. The days inched by, and Draco slowly got used to the classes, and the fame, and constantly being around people. 

The first Saturday of October, Draco was roused from his usual breakfast-time stupor by a tap on the shoulder. It was Professor Pettigrew, giving him a little smile. Professor Saunders stood behind and a little to the left of the Potions instructor, looking serene and well-put-together. 

"Are you ready to investigate your vault, Draco?" Professor Pettigrew asked.

Draco shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs, and finally, he said, "Yes, Professor. Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like how Peter, the Hogwarts Professor, still clearly labels Remus as the responsible one. I showed this chapter as a WIP to one of my friends, and they told me that they might stab me a little if I removed the line.
> 
> Lily was so angry that I was typing extra hard while I wrote her dialogue. I'm not sure that she really knew what she was getting into with James...
> 
> Professor Saunders is kinda awesome. I enjoy him, and I have no idea what his backstory is, but it'll be fun to develop it a bit more.


	11. Scales Under the Streets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirius Black is a responsible adult and should be allowed to interact with children.
> 
> Yep yep yep.

Professor Pettigrew seemed in the mood to dawdle. He peered into windows and smiled, humming to himself over the products on display. After a few minutes, it became clear exactly why when a cheery voice called out "Peter!"

Professor Pettigrew was inspecting a chunky locket in a window display. He arched an eyebrow--expertly, Draco noted with some jealousy--and said, "What do you, think, Sirius?"

"It would weigh your head down to the ground." Sirius was a tall, dark-haired man with a well-groomed beard and mustache, his mouth fixed in what looked like a perpetual smirk. He wore a tailored suit with a small collection of stains on the front.

"Not for me, you utter prat," Professor Pettigrew said.

"Oh," Sirius said. He looked up towards the cloudy sky like he was contemplating something, and finally said, "I don't think Moony'll like it very much."

Professor Pettigrew smacked Sirius across the back of the head. "Come on, Sirius."

Sirius sighed and gave him a look of pitiful sadness. "It's great," he said in the tone of the perpetually put-upon. "Now, introduce me to your friend and go buy it."

"You know perfectly well who this is, Sirius," Professor Pettigrew scolded. "I'm sorry about him, Draco. Sirius has been in an uncooperative mood since the third of November. In nineteen-fifty-nine. He's also a talented curse-breaker for Gringotts, and I've invited him to help us out--pending your permission of course. I believe you two are related, too."

Professor Pettigrew slipped into the store, and Sirius stuck out his hand. "Sirius Black, at your service. He's right, you know. I'm your mother's cousin. Afraid we lost touch after the war. You've a touch of the Black blood in you. Are you a little hell-raiser at school?"

"No," Draco said. He peered in the window at Professor Pettigrew haggling with the shopkeeper over the locket. "Have you ever dealt with the sort of curses that might be on a Gringotts vault?"

"Of course," Sirius said. "There's plenty of wizards think the glamorous part of being a curse-breaker is going to Egypt and breaking into old tombs, but that's basically just burglary. Not that there's anything inherently wrong with that if the burgle-ee deserves it, but they're all a bit past punishing. I work the vaults themselves, though. Plenty of folks put all sorts of nasty things on their gold, and then they die without giving a thought to what to do about the curses. I sort out what's to be done about the curses, and then I do it. Tends to keep people from getting chopped in two by flying serving platters."

"All right," Draco said. "I suppose you can come along. Who is Professor Pettigrew buying that locket for?"

Sirius grinned. "You mean it's not all over Hogwarts?"

"No, nor is it going to be," Professor Pettigrew said, emerging with his purchase. "Honestly, Sirius, I'm _trying_ to be discreet about it."

"And you've been trying for three years now." Sirius started off towards Gringotts, trailing Draco and Professor Pettigrew in his wake. "I'm sure most of the older students have it figured out."

"I'm sure they do." Professor Pettigrew put the box with the locket somewhere in the folds of his cloak. "That doesn't mean you should be going around proclaiming it from the rooftops."

"That's your job," Sirius remarked.

Professor Pettigrew sighed gustily, but chose not to continue arguing with Sirius. They walked in silence into the bank, and Draco went up to the counter. A goblin stared suspiciously at him while Professor Pettigrew rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. Draco handed over the key to vault one thousand and three, and the goblin gave him an accusing look. The spindly creature subjected the key to a series of inspections that Draco could barely even begin to guess the purpose of, including shining a light on it that glowed in a color he was pretty sure didn't exist. Finally, the goblin handed the key back to him and gestured brusquely. "Come on, then. You're taking these two with you?"

"Yes, sir," Draco said. 

The goblin directed a piercing glare at Draco, Sirius, and Professor Pettigrew, and then started calling for supplies. The little party piled into a cart at the entrance to the vaults with a second goblin in addition to their banker, and the lot of them set off on the long, stomach-turning hurtle into the vaults of Gringotts. Their cart rode along rails, taking turns completely unfamiliar to Draco, and he watched in fascination. By then, he knew the turns to Aunt Andromeda's vault, and when they turned off the path at the third one, Draco's heart began to beat a little faster. He watched the caves scroll by, goblins and wizards on the ledges in front of rows of vaults turning to look in interest at the speeding cart and its curious cargo. 

Finally, the cart slowed to a stop, and a low rumble sounded around a corner ahead of them, followed by the heavy thudding of footfalls and clacking of claws on stone. Draco knew that the vaults in the thousands were guarded by at least one dragon, but somehow he hadn't given thought to the idea of facing the thing. The second goblin advanced ahead of them, shaking a bag that clanked and rattled loudly in his hands. There was a roar up ahead, and Draco rounded the corner to see a huge Ukrainian Ironbelly cringing back away from the goblin with the bag. Its scales were pale and flaky, and it stared with milky eyes at the advancing goblin. A surge of pity set Draco frowning, and Sirius clapped a hand onto his shoulder. "Remember this, boy," the curse-breaker said. "That's what captivity does to anything. Dragon, troll, wizard, or dog, a prison ruins anyone who's in it."

The goblin with the bag stayed between them and the dragon, and the goblin from behind the counter led them to a vault that seemed not far enough outside the dragon's reach for safety. He reached out and placed his hand against the vault door, then pointed to a keyhole. "Turn the key," he said.

Draco inserted and turned the key, and the door rumbled once, then melted away, dropping into the floor to reveal a dark room full of stacked wooden boxes. Sirius stepped in front of Draco, wand out, pushing him back and carefully ensuring that not so much as the tip of his wand crossed into the vault itself. He began to cast spells in rapid succession, multicolored light drifting down from his wand and puddling on the floor, or wrapping out to cover the walls, or coruscate across the ceiling. After several long minutes, Sirius slowly advanced into the vault, holding out a hand to keep Draco back. He strode, moving like a liquid more than a man, to the middle of the vault and turned all around, casting as he went, until he lowered his wand and took a deep breath.

"It's all right to come in," Sirius said. "I think it's mostly books. There weren't many curses I could detect on anything in here, but don't touch anything without getting me to look at it first."

Draco stepped in and stared around at the boxes. Nestled here and there between them were pieces of furniture or knickknacks that he had a hard time reconciling with his parents' reputation as Death Eaters. Finally, resolutely, he started towards the first stack of boxes to the left of the door. "Let's start there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sirius, you're an ass.
> 
> It amuses me how a well-adjusted version of Sirius like the one I'm writing right now has the power to completely dominate a scene. He just sort of sweeps in and _happens_ to the other characters, like a tornado.
> 
> Sirius really is well-suited to the life of a curse-breaker, but he has moral objections to the breaking-into-tombs aspect of the work available in Egypt. For that matter, so do I. That whole British-museums-stuffed-with-other-people's-artifacts thing bothers the hell out of me.


	12. The Noble and Moste Ancient House of Malfoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there was a chapter in the books called "The Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black." I want to say it's where Harry first enters Grimmauld Place. Anyways, this chapter title is a deliberate echo of that.

Seven thousand, two hundred and nineteen books lay spread across the floor. Three hundred and seventy six were handwritten volumes, one hundred eighty eight of which were, in turn, spellbooks. Of those, ninety two were deemed "dark" by Sirius Black, and the other ninety six he had declared "really boring, just top-notch stuff as far as not being interesting goes." The half of the handwritten volumes that weren't spellbooks mostly exuded such an aura of also being really dull that Draco had tossed them aside without much thought upon seeing the word "ledger" somewhere on the spine.

There were, however, eleven diaries from various Malfoys. Armand Malfoy's ratty, magic-woven log was a leather-bound thing tied together with some sort of lacing, rather than bound with glue or sticking charms like a proper book. Nicholas Malfoy had bound his own journal in a questionable hide, and Sirius had snatched it up before Draco could touch it. When the journals of Lucius Malfoy (1553-1621) and Brutus Malfoy (1620-1676) were brought too close together, they began to spark and vibrate at each other. A quartet of fancy diaries in gilded leather binding were tied together with ribbons that nobody seemed to be able to open, though Draco wondered if a girl might prize the lacy things open. The remaining three diaries belonged to Abraxas Malfoy (a plain black edition full of crabbed handwriting with a surprising number of little doodles in the margins), Lucius Malfoy (1967-1979--an ostentatious white booklet with obvious gold leaf on the cover) and Narcissa Malfoy (1962-1980--her name was originally written on the cover as Narcissa Black, but the old surname had been scratched out and replaced).

Narcissa's diary had had a glamour of some sort cast over it, and Draco watched as Sirius dissolved the charm to reveal the face of Elvis Presley on faded vinyl with much more childlike handwriting declaring the name attached to it.

The wealth of books and history in vault one thousand and three was sort of impressive in its own way, but there were a few more impressive things there, as well. A sizable couch with a pleasant pattern on it that Draco fully intended to give to Aunt Andromeda, assuming she thought it would fit her decor. A pair of statues that Sirius said were charmed to come to life and walk sentinel around whatever property they were placed on. Most fascinating to Draco was a set of artifacts that Sirius swore up and down were supposed to be lost. Professor Pettigrew was still staring at them, laid out on top of a crate. 

"The Malfoy Armors," he breathed quietly.

Draco gathered up the diaries and walked over to the gobsmacked Potions professor.

"Are you sure that it's genuine?" Draco asked.

"Me, no," Professor Pettigrew said, "but Sirius knows what he's talking about. You know they used this in the Second Battle of Nurmengard. Apparently Altair Malfoy wore it into battle in nineteen-thirty-nine against Grindelwald himself and fell to a killing curse. Your grandfather claimed he'd been unable to retrieve the Armors, but he must have hidden them here."

"Why?" Draco reached out a hesitant hand toward the objects atop the box. They all looked fairly ordinary. A short, wide-bladed sword, a faintly ridiculous bicorne hat covered in green brocade, a pair of worn leather boots, and a positively ancient-looking tunic. A sealed box sat with them, practically humming with magic. There had been no dust on the box, and Sirius had treated it with suspicion until he confirmed that it was just under such a heavy preservation charm that nothing was able to settle on it. Draco picked up the box and turned it over in his hands. "What do they all do? I mean, they're armor, right? And they'd have to be good enough to give you a real advantage, because otherwise you'd never go into a fight wearing mismatched clothes from four different centuries that don't fit you."

Professor Pettigrew frowned at the sword, running his hands up and down the flat of its blade. "Well, the hat's supposed to let the wearer see through darkness, fog, or even blindness, the shirt bounces away minor jinxes entirely, the boots silence your footfalls, and the sword..." Professor Pettigrew pointed his wand at a point a little ways from the sword, cast a stunning hex, and smiled when the blade rushed to intercept the spell and glowed slightly as the magic grounded out into the box. "Catches spells."

"And that's an invisibility cloak," Sirius said, reaching over Draco's shoulder to pull the box out of his hands. "Dumbledore would chop me up and have me served for dinner if I let you take one of those to Hogwarts."

"Potter had one," Draco began, but Professor Pettigrew cut him off.

"It's been confiscated, Draco. And besides, the preservation charm on that box is keeping that thing from breaking down, but that doesn't mean it's fresh as a little girl's polyjuice. You start using it now and you'll be buying a new one by the time you leave school."

"So I can't have the fun things," Draco concluded.

"You have several hundred spellbooks, ten diaries, and Merlin knows what else," Professor Pettigrew said. "There's plenty to keep you busy there."

"Pete, that's all well and good," Sirius said, "but you can't fuck shit up with spellbooks and diaries."

"Sirius!" Professor Pettigrew scolded.

+----+

When they got back to Hogwarts, Professor Pettigrew sent Draco into the Hufflepuff dormitory and headed off in completely the opposite direction from his office, pulling the locket he had purchased in Diagon Alley out of his pocket. It was nearly midnight, and the stack of diaries in Draco's hand was heavy, and he knew he really ought to sleep, but the idea proved easier to formulate than to execute, and he found himself sitting in a big, squashy armchair, the diaries piled in chronological order beside him. Armand Malfoy's diary proved to be in some language other than English, the text well-preserved and legible, but without knowing how to translate it, Draco was lost. He moved on to the first Lucius Malfoy's diary. It was in English, though the handwriting was less legible. Draco ran his fingers gently over the parchment, marveling at the strength of the charms placed on it to preserve it so well. He read a few pages, speculations about the weather and accounts of baffling jokes. There were constant references to someone called "Liz" who apparently was furious with Draco's ancestor whenever he called her that. Draco was fascinated to learn that Liz was not muggleborn, but rather was a muggle, plain and simple. 

Draco lifted the handwritten diary to read more comfortably, and from the fanned pages slipped a stiff sheet that fell into his lap and bounced to the floor. He reached to pick it up and stared at what had to be the finest, thickest vellum he'd ever seen in his life. Finely worked silver filigree adorned the little page at the edges. Further in, beautifully inked patterns surrounded very official-looking text. In a fine, feminine hand, the vellum bore the name of Queen Elizabeth I.

**Elizabeth I, By the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc.**

**Grants to the Noble House of Malfoy, in perpetuity and friendship, the alliance and favor of the Monarch of England, whosoever should they be, in honour and love for Lucius Albert Malfoy.**

**By magical binding and vow given before God in the presence of Honourable Lord Gaunt, in recognition of the trust between the Queen and Her subject, Lucius Malfoy, the promise of a favor is given, should he or any descendant in his line desire succor. Such aid as is right and proper shall flow to the Noble House of Malfoy, and then shall the Oath sworn be fulfilled.**

**This I do swear,**

**Elizabeth I, By the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc.**

Draco's eyes bugged out a bit. Queen Elizabeth I, apparently, owed the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Malfoy a favor.

He turned back to the diary, leaving the royal vow in pride of place on the table, judiciously distant from what appeared to be a mustard stain.

As near as Draco could piece together by Sunday morning, Lucius Malfoy had been an enterprising young lord seeking to impress the recently crowned queen, and if the (honestly rather steamy) letters tucked into various places in the diary were to be believed, he had met with some success until the growing blood-purist movement pressured him into extracting a favor from her instead of pressing his suit and marrying her.

Which left Draco with one question: did Queen Elizabeth II owe him a favor, as the promise on the table seemed to imply, or had the vow, apparently magically enforced, passed down along the tattered remains of the Tudor lines or even dissipated over centuries. It occurred to him that if it had passed along the Tudor lines instead following the monarchy, then it had probably been used up by random chance already, when some Malfoy asked a descendant of the Tudors to lend him a library book, pass the salt, or do something else likewise unequal to the enormity of the reigning queen promising to help your family out of love and friendship.

Draco was staring at the promise when Ernie plunked down next to him.

"Sure you weren't supposed to be in Ravenclaw?" he asked. "Only, you just went to a secret Malfoy bank vault and came back with a whole stack of books and a ruddy lot of paperwork."

"I think the Queen might owe me a favor," Draco said, "if one of my ancestors didn't insist that someone related Elizabeth I throw a Quidditch match and blow the whole thing completely for me."

"The Queen," Ernie muttered. "That's a bit mental, mate."

Draco shrugged. "Well, it's not as though I'm mentioned by name." He gestured to the gilded promise, and Ernie read it over once or twice and then carefully picked it up and handed it to Draco.

"You'll not want that on the table. I spilled mustard all over it just last week. No telling what'll happen to it if you leave it out like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe there's not a program that does non-ironic quick-and-dirty translations to Early Modern English?
> 
> Ernie is excellent comic relief. I really like writing him. All my main characters kinda need a counterpoint like him.


	13. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I might as well drop a chapter here while I have some time.

Draco watched like a hawk as Susan pulled the ribbon around the four diaries he hadn't been able to open. The knot came undone with a soft sliding noise, and she pulled the first diary off of the stack. It opened in her hands and a note slid out of the page. She read it, giggling in places, and looked over the top of the fine parchment at Draco. "You probably won't get much out of this. It says it's advice for girls growing up in the Malfoy family. Only a girl can untie the ribbon, and it's pretty specific about being good advice for getting boys and stuff."

"Well, that seems a bit sexist," Draco began, and Susan interrupted him.

"Girls can't be sexist."

"That's sexist, too," Draco said. "Anyone can be sexist."

"You just have to believe in yourself," Ernie chuckled. He picked up one of the diaries and read off the name, "Rose Malfoy, 1745-1776." He pulled it open and grinned. "Your great-great-great-great gran was hot, Draco." Ernie pulled a little picture, sketched in graphite, out of the diary. Its subject, an attractive woman in her mid-twenties, laughed silently and preened at the compliment. Draco reached out and snatched the picture from Ernie.

"Pervert. And she's not my gran, no matter how many greats you tack onto it. If she was raised a Malfoy, she's some sort of aunt, because when she married and had children, she married out of the family, because otherwise that would mean she'd married her cousin--"

"And had a baby with two heads, I know," Ernie said. "I suppose that didn't occur to me."

"Come to think of it, that might actually explain Dora," Susan pointed out. 

"Did you just call my cousin inbred?"

Susan laughed. "Not your cousin. Your whole family. Seems to have worked out, though."

Draco harrumphed and grabbed the diaries, pulling one each from Susan and Ernie. They covered 1702 to 1886, not without gaps. More gaps than there were diaries, in fact. Violet Malfoy had stopped writing from 1718 to 1722, and Holly had missed 1861 to 1870. The accounts made for interesting reading where they covered actual events. Rose Malfoy had experienced the runup to the American Revolution in Boston, of all places, and left for her homeland only after the young wizard who made the sketch Ernie had crowed over was killed by a Colonial wizard trying to win independence. Violet Malfoy had stopped writing for a while because she was seducing a muggle to influence the crown in order to get lands for the Malfoy family. Holly told an intriguing tale of duels and drama in the Wizengamot, and Lily Malfoy had apparently made it her business to learn distinct ways of winning men from every country she could visit, including such scandalous gems as "men from China will protest if you take charge in the bedroom, but ignore their objections: I have found that there is little--in or out of the bed--that they will refuse to do if you ask it while they are on their knees," and "I believe I managed to sprain my _tongue_ in Versaille last night!"

Draco briefly debated how depraved it would be to keep Lily's diary around just to reread the steamier passages, and elected to stow it in his trunk. He was just coming back, blushing fit to burst, from putting the thing away a few days after his trip to vault one thousand and three when Justin Finch-Fletchley rushed into the common room, yelling "They're having a fight! Look, look!" He pointed at one of the windows that looked out from the common room onto the grounds and Draco hurried onto an overstuffed armchair to look out. 

Some of the windows seemed to command a view from a different part of the castle from the common room, but this one showed a fairly clear picture of what Draco believed was actually outside. In this case, he found himself looking at Harry Potter, wand drawn and face furious, squaring off against Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Neville was on the ground, leaning back and looking pained, with Ron standing protectively over him. There were a few shouts back and forth, rendered thin and muddy by the window and distance. "Why did you come in here to watch?" Draco asked.

"Professors would give me detention for standing about egging them on," Justin replied. 

"You ought to be in Slytherin," Draco mumbled.

"Thanks," Justin said chirpily.

"That wasn't exactly a compliment," Draco pointed out, but Justin wasn't listening anymore. Potter had just launched a spell at Ron. Ron dodged and fired back, the insult and namecalling stage having apparently passed.

Potter duelled back and forth with Ron for a few moments before Ron caught a jinx in the gut and bent double, gasping and retching. Potter advanced towards him, wand extended, and Draco cringed, then started banging and pounding on the window. He upset a potted plant, which fell to the floor. Justin jumped back from it, wise to the destruction such things could cause since his encounter with the Blubberwort. Draco's pounding made Potter look up, and he shouted "I can see you, you idiot!" while gesturing to his eyes.

+---+

Since The Fight, Ron and Neville were added fairly unequivocally to Draco's circle of friends. Neville seemed to have decided that Ron was the best bloke in the world. Probably, Draco reflected, that had something to do with Ron's protecting him. Longbottom wasn't exactly good at most kinds of magic, and only really excelled at all in herbology and potions (the second owing to the constant attention and tutoring of Professor Pettigrew, who seemed to see something worthwhile in helping him), so Ron's middling ability and social floundering made him someone for Neville to look up to. Ron being never without his shadow, and frequently in Draco's company, meant that evenings expanded into Draco, Susan, Ernie, Ron, and Neville wandering the grounds and talking about quidditch or duelling or the last gossip. 

Draco presented the mystery of Professor Pettigrew's buying a locket in Diagon Alley, and everyone figured he must be romancing another professor. They decided it was probably Sinistra. Neville set them the task of figuring out what to do about his toad. Draco promised to take care of it, and managed to frame Potter for killing it, while quietly letting it escape near the lake. Susan confessed to having a crush, but refused to tell anyone who, except that she rebuffed Ron pretty thoroughly when he suggested it must be him. So they passed the days until the Halloween feast. 

The great Hall had been decked out with huge carved pumpkins, Hagrid having apparently found some way to grow them man-sized. Draco couldn't help hoping that meant that pumpkin pie would be coming in great profusion later. He spotted Ron and Neville walking in towards the Gryffindor table, chatting and laughing with each other. Each of the house tables had been draped in its house's primary color, and in black, which made the Hufflepuff table simply Hufflepuff.

Before long, the feast was in full swing, and very nearly everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. Draco was laughing at the antics of the Weasley twins at the end of the Gryffindor table when the doors to the Great Hall slammed open. Everyone turned to stare as Professor Quirrel raced through the Great Hall, shouting "TROLL! TROLL, IN THE DUNGEONS!" He pelted clear up to the head table, shouting. Draco flinched and turned away. The Defense Professor's shouts were so loud it was giving him a headache. "Thought you ought to know," Quirrel managed at the end of his run and shout, and with not another word, he collapsed dead away in a faint.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J.K. Rowling insists that Trevor originally escaped into the lake itself (much to the relief of both toad and owner, apparently) but while toads are amphibians, the common toad seems, after some quick research, more at home on land.
> 
> I will never not love Quirrel's run through the Great Hall. I might find a way to work that scene into a muggle AU if I ever wrote one.


	14. Ron and Neville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter while I have spare time.

After the silence came a sudden screaming panic. Justin turned to Draco with an expression of absolute horror and exclaimed "Do something, Malfoy!" as though Draco's being the Boy Who Lived enabled him in any way to fight trolls. Susan immediately clung to Draco, her eyes fixed on a point across the table.

After about ten seconds, Dumbledore's voice boomed "SILENCE!" and everyone went quiet at once.

Dumbledore began passing down instructions, prefects started lining up their houses and ushering them out into the corridors on the way to their common rooms while the teachers spread out to look for the troll. Draco caught sight of Professor Pettigrew trying to revive Professor Quirrel before he was led out of the Great Hall. The journey through the halls was harrowing. Susan and Ernie flinched, it seemed, nearly as hard as Draco at each and every little noise, as though a troll was about to come around the corner and start eating people. Draco knew that trolls were supposed to be accompanied everywhere by an awful smell, but without knowing what it was, he worried that he might not recognize it when it came. Still, he was glad he wasn't a Slytherin. Potter could be heard vociferously objecting to being brought to the Slytherin common room on the grounds that they were in the dungeons, and that was where the troll was, and were they all quite mad, because _honestly,_ how stupid could you get?

Much as Draco didn't like to admit it, Potter had something of a point. Professor Saunders had gone off somewhere apparently without the slightest thought of proceeding ahead of the Slytherins to check for gigantic dangerous creatures. When Potter objected, Hannah yelled from somewhere at the head of the line of Hufflepuffs "Worst part is they won't be able to smell it coming because you already smell like a troll, Potter!"

"They won't notice if it comes right up next to them either," Ernie muttered, flinching briefly at a quiet noise off to the side. "If they see it, they'll just be trying to decide whether it's Crabbe or Goyle."

Draco was still chuckling over that when they got into the common room, and honestly, as far as ways to keep safe from a troll went, the Hufflepuff common room was a good bet, given that the entrance was well-disguised, vertical, and somewhat narrow, all of which probably put it past the intellectual capabilities of a troll.

Everyone gathered in the common room, and nobody dared to go off into the dormitories (presumably for fear of finding that the troll had somehow got into them), so it immediately became crowded and stuffy. Someone started up the hearth, and there was a general outcry and objection until they put it back out. Most people were busily discussing how the troll could have got in when Professor Sprout clambered down the ladder to inform them that it had been caught in one of the bathrooms upstairs. She looked haggard and careworn, and Draco suspected there was quite a story to be told. He determined to have it from someone, but the way the professor clammed up when asked what exactly had happened.

+----+

"Ron?"

Ron turned to look back at Neville, and frowned when he saw the look on his face. "What's wrong, Nev? Is it the troll? Don't worry about the troll, we're going about as far from the dungeons as we can get." He grinned. "And besides, I'm here, right? I'll chase off any--"

"It's not that, it's just, I've just recalled..." Neville looked around at the line of Gryffindors heading toward the Gryffindor tower. Nearly-Headless Nick was up at the front of the line, chatting amiably with Ron's older brother, who looked a little distracted and quite self-important, and was presumably quite ignorant of the twins a few places behind him in the line aping his puffed-out chest and upturned nose. "Ron, you called Hermione a know-it-all earlier."

"I've already said I'll apologize," Ron began, but Neville interrupted.

"It's not that, it's that... I think I heard someone say that she was crying in the bathroom instead of going to the feast. And I don't see her. You don't think she's still in the bathroom, do you?"

Ron blanched a bit as the implication got through to him. If Hermione was crying in the bathroom, she wouldn't know about the troll. If she didn't know about the troll, she might blunder into it. If she blundered into it... "there's going to be a Hermione-colored stain on the wall and it's all my fault," Ron groaned.

"We could go get her," Neville suggested quietly.

Ron grabbed his hand and hurried away from the line. "Which bathroom?"

"Um... I don't know," Neville said. "I barely remember to wear shoes half the time. I don't even know if I heard which bathroom. Maybe we ought to just start with the closest one?"

Ron dragged Neville away while Neville rooted in his pocket for his wand. Thirteen inches of cherry wood were cool to the touch under his fingers, and he felt marginally safer until he reflected on the fact that he could, at best, completely fail to levitate the troll. Maybe he could try that expedious spell Draco had used on Potter to retrieve Seamus' letter, except that he wasn't at all confident he had the spell right, or what it did except to take away letters.

Ron's hurried pace took them pretty quickly to a bathroom that had the sound of weeping in it, and Neville breathed a sigh of relief. There was no awful troll-smell, no crashing and banging, no sound of Hermione Granger being repeatedly squished. Ron started towards it, but Neville held him back. "That's a girls' bathroom, Ron." He stuck his head in the door and shouted "Hermione, there's a troll in the dungeons. We're all heading up to the common room. You have to come out."

She let out a hiccup and another little sniffle while Neville noted that the girls' bathroom smelled very different from boys' rooms, but not exactly _better._

"I'm coming," Hermione said at last, and Neville pulled his head back out of the bathroom. Ron sniffed. "That bathroom smells awful."

Neville nodded. There were even more awful notes to the smell that had wafted out of the bathroom as he kept smelling it, and of course Hermione let out a little cloud of it when she stepped out.

"What on earth is that smell?" she complained.

Neville turned to look at her. "You mean the bathroom doesn't usually smell like this?"

"Not like this." Hermione's nose wrinkled.

Ron let out a little noise, and Neville rolled his eyes. "It's not that bad. Honestly, Ron..."

"T... t... t..."

Neville turned to look at Ron, ready to scold him for probably making Hermione feel worse, now about the way she smelled. Ron had gone completely pale.

In a very small voice, Ron whimpered "troll."

Neville whirled. The troll was huge, ten feet tall, dragging a club as long as Ron was tall behind it. Hermione shook his arm. "Neville, there's a troll. Neville... Troll... we have to get it into sunlight, Neville."

"That's going to take a bit," Neville squeaked, "Owing to it's seven at night."

The troll let out a roar and broke into a run. All three of the Hogwarts students ran. They skidded around a corner just in time to see Professor MacGonagall come 'round the next bend, raising her wand.

The Transfiguration professor snapped a spell, and there was a horrible shuffling and sliding behind them. Neville turned to see the troll stumbling. MacGonagall let out another spell, and a jet of blue light sent the troll over backwards. A third and fourth spell knocked it out and bound it securely.

Neville fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are very few ways to write the troll incident that don't end with a Hermione-shaped splat on the wall or a complete anticlimax. I hope I've done well here.
> 
> Also, I ship Ron/Neville a little bit, and I make no apologies for it. They're cute together.
> 
> If only they were literally any house but Gryffindor, the whole dumb problem would be solved by TELLING A TEACHER HERMIONE WAS IN DANGER.
> 
> Minerva MacGonagall is a stone cold badass.


End file.
